Read Online Something in Common by Roisin Meaney - Free Book Online Page B

the question.
    Helen had never heard a word of praise from him, never got a hint that he’d actually liked any of her pieces, even though he had turned down not a single one of them. When she’d taken a chance and submitted her first unasked-for book review, a couple of weeks after the Agatha Christie piece, it had appeared in the following day’s paper – and not long afterwards she’d taken delivery of two book proofs by authors whose names she didn’t recognise.
    500 words on each by Friday week latest
he’d written –
latest
underlined twice – on the compliments slip that had accompanied them,
MB
at the bottom so she’d known it was him. Even his spiky handwriting looked annoyed.
    God help Mrs Breen, in the unlikely event that such an unfortunate creature existed – would any woman in her right mind take him, for better or worse? Anyone who did would have to be as cantankerous as him. Maybe she’d turn up on his arm tonight, lording it over the plebs.
    To make things worse, getting to the party had involved enlisting the help of her parents. There’d been little choice but to ask them, with Anna from across the road, Alice’s regular babysitter, having taken the ferry the day before to spend Christmas and NewYear with her married daughter in England.
    Helen was well aware that her career as a journalist was a source of continuing bemusement to her parents. Writing for a newspaper wouldn’t be much of a step up, in their eyes, from earning a living as a musician, and the fact that she was working in a male-dominated area – according to Catherine, Helen was one of just two female writers on the paper’s list of freelancers – didn’t help.
    Then again, she was working for her parents’ newspaper of choice, which she knew her father held in high regard, and she was supporting herself and Alice, so there wasn’t much they could legitimately object to.
    ‘A Christmas party,’ her mother had said. ‘How sociable. Of course we can take Alice. Have you got something to wear?’
    Helen had resisted the impulse to tell her that actually she’d decided to go nude. ‘My black trouser suit.’
The one I wore to Cormac’s funeral
, she might have added, but didn’t.
    ‘That old thing? You’ve had it for years. Let us treat you to something new.’
    Throwing money at her, like they’d always done. Still believing she’d mistake it for love.
    The trouser suit
was
old – Helen had bought it before she met Cormac – but it would do fine for a party where she knew nobody, where she didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of her, or her outfit. Far cry from the hours she’d spent getting ready to go out to the parties Cormac and the boys would be invited to.
    She felt the alcohol begin to soften her up around the edges, despite its unappealing taste. The not-very-large room – presumably the main working area of the paper – was full of noisy, laughing people, the air heavy with their cigarette smoke. Helen had spoken to nobody apart from Catherine, who thankfully had been on the lookout for her, and who’d turned out to be both older and heavier than Helen had envisaged, and every bit as friendly as she had always soundedon the phone.
    ‘I just love your writing,’ she’d told Helen, dabbing at her large, rosy face with a red napkin. ‘So original and witty, and you can write serious as well as funny. And your book reviews are always so direct.’
    Breen, apparently, had yet to arrive. ‘He’s not really a party person,’ Catherine had admitted, which didn’t surprise Helen in the least. ‘He’ll definitely show up at some stage, though, and I’ll introduce you.’
    But Catherine had gone to the toilet a few minutes ago and hadn’t reappeared – tired, no doubt, of having to babysit the freelancer. One more glass of bad wine and Helen would make her escape, Breen or no Breen. She edged her way through the crowd to the makeshift bar and refilled her glass, managing to splatter her jacket